


duck egg blue

by MymbleHowl



Series: spilt sunshine [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Porn Without Plot, weird sexposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MymbleHowl/pseuds/MymbleHowl
Summary: He’s turned up on her doorstep with his bike and his ideals and skewed Sansa’s calm, grown up axis.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: spilt sunshine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920478
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	duck egg blue

**Author's Note:**

> There is an oblique reference to coercive control in here.
> 
> Sansa is early 30s here, and Jon is very explicitly 23. I did choose 23 on purpose.
> 
> I think this is kinda weird and I did try writing some of the backstory but it felt unnecessary.

He half pulls down her herringbone trousers, her knickers and lifts her easily onto the cool of her duck egg blue Corian worktop. Even though she is kicking off her work heels, even though she arching back like a femme fatale as he tugs off her trousers, even though she is rocking against the fingers he has pushed inside her, she is thinking. 

She is thinking, I should never have got the duck egg blue, but her mother was paying, as a thirtieth birthday present. His mouth is on her nipple, his tongue wet and furious even through her shirt and bra. She is thinking a 23 year old lifted me onto my kitchen worktop, a furious 23 year old, is this how he spills his fury? 

His mouth is hot against hers, his beard scratching against her skin and she pushes herself into kiss after kiss as she fucks herself on his fingers. The eddies of arousal pull her this way and that. Still she thinks, she thinks of his worries about the chemicals used to clean the duck egg blue worktop, his polite plaintive questions, how he tucks his fury away, so he seems polite, quiet, earnest. She is kissing the edge of his jaw, his neck, never minding if she is kissing the curls of his beard or smooth skin. She feels like a vampire, drinking up his youth, his beauty, his fury. He has shifted her closer, so she feels the jut of his hips against her thighs, so the strength of his palm holds her lower back, so he can catch her clitoris with the thumb of the hand she is still rolling on. 

She breathes ragged and giddy and she thinks about the word frigid, said with a conciliatory tone once, maybe 10 years ago. The word frigid, said with an accusatory tone, many times, 15 years ago. But the heal of his hand is pushed hard against the base of her spine, he is mimicking on her neck, her jaw, the line of kisses she has given him, he is pushing slowly against her wet clitoris and she is pushing like the tide against his fingers and that word floats free. There is just the spinning shudder of her orgasm on the duck egg blue worktop.


End file.
